Cracks in his drooping face deepen –
unlike his lover’s scent on the coverlet
He locks the bedroom door
Son and grandson well beyond the wall
call him to the tea cup
but his aching frame is already filled
with emptiness
No room for even the pill
that prolongs the pulse;
the gut-churn is the voice of his need
to close
He pulls out the top drawer, chooses
satin blouse, bra, pants, panties –
bloomers they called them in his day
flushing him red once at the clothesline
when the crotch flapped in his face
He pads anxiously to the bed
Turns the pillow and her absence vertical
Garbs them with her garments
Finding her wig in the corner of the closet
he fits it – with its styrofoam head –
unto the pillow’s shoulders
He turns out the light
Centred high between the drapes,
the gibbous moon sheds a cloud
whitens his lover’s silhouette
Lying with her rushes his heartbeat
Her fragrance
floating
him
feather-light
he kisses her ghost
dying for the flesh
to which the ghost belongs1
First published in Panty Lines, A Poetic Anthology, Edited by Deborah McVitti and Ursula Vaira, Blue Moon Press, 2000, pp. 67-68.